The (almost really) Complete Works of Lewis Carroll

No. 9999. Dec. 29, 1869.

Opening of the New Theatre.

(From our Special Correspondent, Mr. Lewis Carroll.)

It was towards the close of one of those days of dreamy and delicious languor for which Guildford is so justly celebrated. The unbroken calm of the weather had been pleasingly varied by an incessant hailstorm, and its sultriness subdued by a severe frost, and now the mellow shades of Evening were fast deepening into the brilliant obscurity of Night. At such a moment might have been observed (had there been light enough for the purpose, and any one present to observe) a small but resolute band of wayfares (they numbered a poor thousand at most) wending their solitary way in the direction of the new and spacious Theatre, just about to be opened for its great and long-to-be-remembered Inaugural Entertainment.

Of these travellers (for we must not yet desert the guidance of the great model of Romance-writing) one was older than the other—in fact, it might be said that several of them were older than several others—or, to state it in more general, though less poetical, language, they were of various ages. And here, great G. P. R. James, farewell! We quit thy guiding hand, and assume the pen of the antiquarian and the philosopher.

The earliest instance, afforded us by the annals of our beloved country, of an ‘Entertainment’ strictly so called, was given under most exceptional circumstances, and with an audience which appears to have consisted of Royalty pure and simple. The incident is embodied in the following lines of rude, yet pathetic, doggrel:—

Though the loyalty of an age, whose bards could thus dare to abridge the name of their sovereign (properly Kanute or Canute) into a monosyllable, to suit the exigencies of their verse, may fairly be called in question, yet we may not doubt that it was to the King’s ear alone that the lay was addressed: for him alone were those monastic voices raised in harmony—voices which appear, by the way, to have been so low and weak (but whether from fast or feast deponent sayeth not) that the King was driven perforce to bring his boat to land, and moor it at the very feet of the mellifluous, but inaudible, ascetics.

Let us contemplate for a moment the simple condition of things indicated by this venerable tetrastich. Monks and knights appear to have divided society; Music and War we may judge to have been their principal occupations: probably the two verbs most in use in those days were the simple, but most suggestive, monosyllables ‘to sing’ and ‘to shoot.’

The few incidents that occurred between the reigns of Canute and Victoria are all so admirably recorded by the graphic pens of Hume and Macaulay, that we should but insult our readers were we to venture to depict them with our humbler goosequill.

We proceed, then, by a transition which we trust may prove as successful as it is sudden, to the consideration of the memorable epoch, Dec. 28, 1869. Those two simple verbs ‘to sing’ and ‘to shoot’ were perhaps, even at that late period, after the lapse of so many centuries, not wholly forgotten.

And both are appropriate to the Entertainment now to be recorded: for the ‘singing,’ the mere mention of the ‘Dirge of Dundee’ will suffice for all who had the privilege of being present; while, if it be doubted how ‘shooting’ could find a place in such a scene, we can only say that if Cupid’s darts were not flying thick as hail, it was not for want of bright eyes to rain them down—let each reader lay his hand upon his heart (if he happen to possess one) and make reply.

There is, however, we have reason to believe, some deeper allusion in these apparently simple phrases, than we have been able to fathom: for the following cabalistic phrase was on many a tongue during that eventful evening—that ‘to have seen sing shoot, and to have heard shoot sing, was a treat well worth coming for.’ We have devoted our whole intellectual energies, during several hours, to the task of grappling with this profound enigma, and are compelled at last to leave it, in all its original obscurity, to the sagacity of the reader.

The fact that the Inaugural Entertainment was to be given solely by amateurs lent an additional zest to the evening, and even if the enterprising Manager had not, with his usual liberality, given away orders of admission in almost reckless profusion, the house would still have been filled to overflowing. The reporters of the Press were alone excluded on this occasion, the Manager tersely remarking that there would be ‘press enough without them.’

Time would fail us to describe the decorations, and the many contrivances for the comfort of the audience, and we must content ourselves by briefly mentioning a most original feature in the arrangements—the abolition of pit, gallery, and boxes; so that the whole house constituted one magnificent dress-circle. We append the programme of the performance.

So soon as the audience had comfortably seated themselves, and an expectant silence reigned throughout that vast assembly, the following Prologue was delivered by a speaker, invisible to the eye, but in whose genial tones the audience had no difficulty in recognizing the worthy Manager himself.

The Prologue concluded, the curtain rose on the scene from ‘King Lear’ where the blinded Duke of Gloucester is discovered by the King, and the elaborate costume of the latter at once suggested a sufficient reason for the Manager not having appeared in propriâ personâ to recite the Prologue. We have much pleasure in presenting our readers wit the text of the second Act.

This portion of the Charade was succeeded by a scene from Miss Edgworth’s lively drama ‘Old Poz,’ which served by way of contrast to heighten the effect both of the Tragedy which preceded it and of the Dirge which followed it.

The Muses of Tragedy and of Comedy having been thus efficiently represented, it remained only to cater for the votaries of the more modern Muse, (not numbered among the tuneful Nine,) yclept Low Comedy or Face; and for their delight was provided an abridged version of the popular favourite, ‘Poor Pillicoddy.’

The well-known interpolated song in this farce, though usually omitted in representation, was on the present occasion re-introduced with considerable effect. The words are by Lord Byron; but, as our readers may not have the volume at hand to refer to, we here print it in extenso.

Detailed criticism on an amateur performance would, we think, be out of place, nor can it be necessary to remind the audience how zealously the actors exerted themselves for their amusement, nor the actors with what ready sympathy the audience welcomed their efforts. It is enough to record that the Entertainment, as a whole, was most deservedly successful. The theatrical portion of the evening was brought to a close by the following

On the conclusion of the theatrical portion of the Entertainment, an excellent supper was provided for the guests, after which dancing was kept up to a late hour with much spirit, and the brilliance of the court-dresses worn by the ladies in ‘Kenilworth’ and retained throughout the evening, enhanced in no small degree the effect produced by the mazy motion of that gay and glittering assemblage. ‘Fast and furious’ was the fun, but the excitement rose to a climax when the indefatigable Manager, most kindly aided by the wife of our great ecclesiastical novelist, delighted the assembled company by their consummate execution of an Irish jig. So brilliant was the performance of each in this most spirited of dances, that it is scarcely possible to award to either the palm of superiority: all we can say is, that all the previous Terpsichorean feats of the evening were fairly overtopped and thrown into the shade, and that the spectators applauded with an unbounded enthusiasm this richest, most comical, and most memorable gem of their evening’s amusement.

And thus came to an end an evening not soon to be forgotten, and as each departing guest wended his homeward way, and cast, in the words of the poet, a ‘longing lingering look behind,’ not even the frosty air of the wintry night could wholly efface a glow of gratitude to the hospitable host and hostess who had provided the means for so pleasant a meeting—gratitude to which the writer of the present article desires here to add his own earnest tribute of thanks.

We cannot more fitly conclude this hasty sketch than by furnishing our readers with the words of the ‘Dirge of Dundee,’ written by Mr. W. W. Follett Synge, and sung by Miss Alice Shute, in the character of the Genius of Scotland, while soldiers are carrying from the field the bier on which rests the body of the hero.